


Meet Me In Your Timeline

by jvo_taiski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Appropriate amounts of angst for any AU where there are immortal characters, F/F, Fluff, History, Humour, Light-Hearted, copious historical references, cottagecore if you squint, immortal au, my fav sapphics, time traveller AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: AU where Parvati Patil is a time traveller and Lavender Brown is the immortal who’s always there to keep her up to date on current affairs. They’re totally dating.[idk where i nicked the prompt from]enjoy my gift of 8000 words of lesbians messing around in history, my attempt at cute and funny and a heartwarming, clichéd ending because why not
Relationships: Lavender Brown/Parvati Patil
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Meet Me In Your Timeline

For the most part, Lavender was a good little god-fearing young woman, devoted to things that mattered, like cooking, and her future husband, and being seen and not heard. Lavender was pretty, and she knew it.

But then again, Lavender valued her own life enough to be willing to bend the rules by _not_ mentioning the strange woman who appeared by her fireplace in confessions. She was sitting there, darning her bodice like the model of a perfect future-wife that she was, when suddenly, there was an alarming _snap_ noise and where there had been a string of drying mushrooms, there was now the figure of a woman.

She was unlike anyone Lavender had ever seen before, with smooth brown skin and jet black hair done up in a long, silky braid and gorgeous eyes, dark the smouldering embers in the fire.

“Hello!” said the woman.

Lavender shrieked and almost fell backwards off her chair because the devil was standing in the front room and her mother was going to kill her if she found out the devil had been in her front room. She was just inwardly debating the likelihood that god would step in and save her if she grovelled on the floor real quick (maybe this was punishment for paying a bit too much attention to Katie Bell’s tits) when the woman spoke again.

“You don’t know me?” she asked, half-incredulously and half-delighted.

It was weird, the way she spoke, but understandable. “No,” replied Lavender, wondering if she should revise her game plan from grovelling to offering to join the devil’s cult of witches. If this was indeed the devil, she was entirely too good-looking to pass off the chance.

“Wow! Mind if I have a seat? I’ve just been escaping pirates and I’m a little knackered.”

“You’re not the devil?” asked Lavender, warily. She hadn’t been killed yet and the woman spoke brightly, and, well. The suspense was killing her.

“No,” said the woman, moving a basket of yarn out of the way to sit on the rickety little chair. “I’m a time traveller. From the future.”

“Are all people from the future so dark, then?”

“What? No. There are people with different skin tones now, you know. They just live in different places. Like India.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” continued the woman, smoothing her hands over her breeches. She wore strange clothes, like a man, and they flattered her. “My name is Parvati. Parvati Patil. I’m a time traveller and I’ve met future versions of you.”

“Oh,” repeated Lavender, feeling quite faint. She wondered if there was something funny in the mushroom stew her mother had made last night.

“You’re immortal,” Parvati informed her, after a long pause of Lavender wondering how, exactly, random beautiful women appearing in her front room lined up with the Bible.

“Well fuck,” said Lavender, finally getting her tongue back. Parvati threw her head back and laughed, the sound clear and free, and it lifted something in Lavender’s chest. Surely, the devil couldn’t laugh like _that._

Then, too soon (Lavender felt like she was wading through a dream) the woman stood up again and bid her farewell. Everything was going rather fast for Lavender and she couldn’t help feeling remarkably flustered when Parvati grasped her hand and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles. Suddenly, her bodice was entirely too warm.

And then the strange woman _(Parvati—the name sounded strange and beautiful on her tongue)_ was gone. Just like that.

Again, Lavender wondered whether it was all a demonic vision or a product of hallucinogenic mushrooms but opted not to say anything to her mother when she came back. The whole thing was strange, sure, but it was best ignored. Lavender had no intentions of being burned as a witch.

***

Time passed. Weeks bled into months, which bled into years and even a decade, and Lavender had all but decided that it was all a strange dream, perhaps brought on by hallucinogenic mushrooms, or an imbalance of the four humours.

Until suddenly, after a certain point in time, the more time that passed, the more Lavender couldn’t stop thinking about it.

As she anxiously examined her face for any trace of wrinkles, the beautiful dark-haired woman crept into her mind again. She was 35 for god’s sake, and there was yet to be a single blemish on her skin, whether it be a wrinkle or a spot or a stretch mark. She’d had 2 children and lost her husband to the plague (tragic, really) and nothing had touched her. Quite frankly, she didn’t look a day over 20.

Her good friend, Susan Bones, asked her if she was using special anti-aging herbs.

Lavender panicked, not wanting to be accused of witchcraft, and said she’d been bathing in rose-infused ass’ milk.

***

The first time she almost died was accidental, and so was the second. It wasn’t her fault that the king’s cavalry decided that the best route through the village was _right on top of her_ , and equally, it wasn’t her fault that she survived. So really, even if she was a witch, she couldn’t be blamed, although the townsfolk didn’t see it that way.

So, nope. Apparently, her miraculous recovery wasn’t a sign from god; it was a sign of the devil, and she was going to be burned at the stake. It didn’t help that some pleb had remembered she was actually 84 years old and still had all her hair and teeth.

It hurt like a bitch, but somehow, she’d crawled from the ashes right as rain, and she was getting frustrated.

“It’s not going to work,” said a voice, cheerily.

Lavender whirled around from the edge of the cliff incredulously. “You!” Then, smugly, “I knew I wasn’t hallucinating. Are you a witch? How did you do it? Why am I still alive?”

“Well don’t ask me,” said Parvati, eying the edge of the cliff warily. “Look, d’you mind if we stepped away? Jumping off isn’t going to work, by the way. You try it again when I leave and you’re still alive by the end of it.”

“But… you knew I was immortal.” Lavender grudgingly stepped away from the cliff and fell into step with the weird woman. She was well past the freaking-out phase—after being trampled by no less than 100 horses and coming out unscathed, it took a lot to ruffle her, mysterious women popping up out of nowhere included. “Why can’t I die?”

“Why, do you want to die?”

“I dunno. Might be nice. Any ideas from the future as to why I’m immortal?”

“Nope. All I know is that you are, and you stay that way pretty much forever.”

And frankly, Lavender couldn’t be bothered to question it as they settled down on the slope, among the soft, springy heather. She’d stopped believing in Jesus and the big man in the sky a long time ago because she’d learned Latin and read the Bible herself, and it made even less sense when it wasn’t coming from a priest.

“How long are you staying?” asked Lavender, eying the woman out of the corners of her eyes. “You were only here for about 10 minutes, last time. And I’d like to learn about the future.”

“Of course!” Parvati threw her a brilliant grin and Lavender cursed herself for finding it so much more exhilarating than every sly glance the village boys used to throw her way, even if they made her giggle and blush too. But no. Lavender was a woman now, a senior citizen in fact, and she was not about to _start giggling._ “Do you live alone?”

“Yes. As of recently, I’ve discovered that my life is a whole lot easier as a simple hermit woman in an abandoned house on the coast,” replied Lavender, dryly. “Nobody’s going to question where you’re from, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Perfect.”

They spent a week as companions in Lavender’s little cottage. Lavender showed her how to fish and make a net and collect mushrooms and Parvati listened attentively, told her that her time-travelling was a complete accident, and mourned the lack of ‘toilet paper’, whatever that may be. According to Parvati, the future was exciting.

So much so that Lavender waited a whole week after Parvati left to try jumping off the cliff again. But as she said, it didn’t work. It was just very cold.

***

Lavender took a sip of wine and adjusted the ridiculous thing on her head. But if nobility these days wore uncomfortable dresses, then Lavender was damn well going to do it to avoid working in the fields for another century.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling you,” said Parvati, a mischievous spark in her eyes as she leaned forwards. “Henry VIII _executes_ Anne Boleyn.”

“But she’s pregnant! She’ll give him an heir! King Henry separated from Rome for the sole reason of marrying this woman, why would he behead her?”

“ _Trust_ me. Only one of us is from the future and it’s not you.”

Lavender sighed dramatically and reclined in her seat, cursing her flowing skirts. Dressing as a peasant was so much easier. “Does he ever get an heir, then? How many wives does it take?”

“Well, Anne Boleyn gives him arguably the best heir, even if she is a woman. Elizabeth I—she gives a lovely motivational speech just before she wins a war with Spain. Look out for that one.”

“When do women get rights, again? Remind me.”

“Oh,” said Parvati, vaguely. “In another 400 years or so, thereabouts. But anyway. His only male heir is fucking useless and dies, and Mary—”

“Mary? Catherine of Aragon’s daughter?”

“That’s the one. She’s called mad and bloodthirsty by the history books, even if Henry VIII technically executed more people, and I suspect that’s something to do with the fact that she was—sorry, is—a woman, and she dies pretty quickly.”

“Who gives him his heir in the end?” Lavender asked, curiosity getting ahead of her.

“His third wife, Jane Seymour. She dies in childbirth, which is a shame, because she was arguably Henry’s favourite wife.”

“Jane!” gasped Lavender, sitting up rather abruptly. “Why, how awful! I went to supper with her just the other week. A shame, really, she’s a delightful woman if not blander than gruel.”

She sighed dramatically and fanned herself, while Parvati helped herself to Lavender’s supper. “Get your own food, plebeian.”

“Oh shut up Lavender, some of us aren’t immortal. I’m starving. Where’s your latest husband, anyway?”

“Oh, Cormac,” she said, unenthusiastically. “Probably hunting, again. Although I still can’t believe that Jane is the next unlucky girl, although everyone else seems to think it would be an honour, marrying King Henry. You know what, Parvati?”

“Yeah?” Parvati looked up from the leg of goose she was eating and Lavender resisted the urge to kiss away the spot of gravy away from the corner of her mouth.

“Let’s make an agreement. No spoilers from now on.”

“No spoilers?”

“Precisely. It’s no fun knowing what’s going to happen, what when you come and tell me everything. Scandals are so much more exciting when they’re new.”

Parvati laughed, mouth stretching wide and showing her achingly perfect teeth. Lavender couldn’t wait for dental care to become a thing.

“Sure thing, Lav. We’ll bitch about ancient history as it comes.”

“Technically,” sniped Lavender. “It’s current affairs, little miss future.”

Unfortunately, Lavender’s dreadful Lord of a husband chose that moment to return from his ghastly hunting trip and Parvati had press a button on her watch and disappear.

“Who’s there? I heard talking,” he scowled.

“Nobody,” huffed Lavender, wishing she could keep her position as a Lady if he mysteriously copped it in the night, but she had no intentions of bearing another child to solidify her position. “I just have to talk to myself as you’re never around to do it. Now fetch me my lute at once.”

“Yes, dear.”

***

“I told you it would be a good speech,” said Parvati, smugly. They were sitting in the rafters of a theatre, sharing a bottle of whiskey between them. It tasted awful but Lavender was feeling giggly, even if she wasn’t quite sure how she’d manage to sneak out once the play was over. “Queen Elizabeth I was quite the icon. Although her attempts at settling in the America’s don’t work, so I’d advise against taking that particular journey.”

She looked beautiful in the shadows of the rafters and Lavender could tell herself it was the alcohol talking as much as she liked (being drunk was fun, it was only a shame it was still considered unladylike) but she really wanted to kiss Parvati. Again. _Another woman._ Oh well, it wasn’t any less sacrilegious than her whole existence.

But Parvati was gorgeous with her long dark eyelashes and the curve of her lips that looked dusky, almost purple, and the smattering of hair connecting her eyebrows. She was still in those clothes that looked like a man’s, tight breeches made of a strange blue fabric that flattered her curves very nicely indeed. If she was being honest, Lavender was focussing more on Parvati than the play happening below them, or even the way the dust kept making her nose tickle.

“It’s a shame Shakespeare hasn’t made it big yet,” sighed Parvati, startling Lavender, who hurriedly pretended she was focussing on the boy dressed as a girl swooning on stage. It was simply ridiculous that women weren’t allowed to act, and Lavender briefly entertained the notion of pretending to be a man and joining an acting troupe.

“Shakespeare?” she enquired.

Parvati shrugged. “He’s the most famous playwright in the English-speaking world, in my time. But he wrote his plays around now. What’s the year?”

“1588 or thereabouts.”

“What do you mean, ‘or thereabouts’?”

“Parvati. I’ve been alive for over two centuries. I lose track.”

“Fair enough. But I think The Taming of the Shrew might have already been written—I don’t know, I’m not studying English Lit—but it’s a bit too early for Shakespeare. Ridiculously misogynistic play, that, or so I’ve heard. I’ve never seen it.”

“So you’re telling me,” said Lavender, incredulously. “That the most famous playwright in the 21st century is still some guy from the 1500s?”

“Yep,” Parvati gave her a little half-smile. “He was that iconic, apparently, despite the abundance of dick jokes. If I don’t come back in the next few decades or so, will you go see a Shakespeare play for me? Tell me how it is.”

“Of course,” replied Lavender, a little surprised but touched nonetheless. “Which one do you want me to watch and think of you?”

“Oh hell, I don’t know. Something romantic. I’d say Romeo and Juliet, that’s his most famous.”

“You want me to watch a romantic play and think of you?”

“For sure,” grinned Parvati, and leaned forwards, pressing a gentle kiss to Lavender’s cheek.

Lavender experienced a solid 20 seconds of homosexual panic where her brain short-circuited and she blushed a furious red.

Parvati’s shit-eating grin got even wider and _god help her_ , she was going to be the death of Lavender.

“Oh I’m sorry, we’ve never done that before?”

Lavender struggled to remember how to breathe and wondered if Parvati had single-handedly found a way to kill her poor immortal self. “Not in my timeline, no,” she squeaked.

“Well in which case…”

This time, Lavender curled her hands at the nape of her neck when she leaned in to kiss her properly and everything was perfect.

***

France was beautiful—the culture, the country, the _language._ Sure, Parvati said that the ‘r’ sounded like an aeroplane taking off (whatever an aeroplane was) or a cat choking, but Lavender knew that it was only because she was salty she couldn’t pronounce it properly. True, Parvati also complained profusely about the abundance of seemingly redundant vowels and the fact that half the letters weren’t actually supposed to be pronounced ( _“Oiseaux_ is pronounced _how_ exactly? _”_ ). But Lavender argued that it was no less bullshit than the English language, which was such shambles that she didn’t even know how it managed to qualify as a language.

Distracted, Lavender helped herself to more grapes and peered out of the window. There were peasants outside her house again. She felt like there was going to be another revolution, which was a shame, considering she’d only just made it as nobility again.

She idly smoothed her skirts down and tapped her foot on the heavy carpet, her mind still on Parvati. It had been almost half a century since her last visit, and while wallowing around Paris, eating cake and admiring renaissance art was all fun and games, she was bored and restless.

And almost as if some higher being was listening to her, there was a familiar _snap_ in the air and a familiar figure appeared—no, fell—into the living space.

“Parvati, darling!” beamed Lavender, hurrying to help her friend up. “I’ve missed you!”

But Parvati’s eyes were wide and and startled as she hesitantly let her help her up. Lavender thought she was beautiful like this, all wide eyes and ruffled hair and dusky lips open in shock.

“Don’t worry, I know you’re from the future,” soothed Lavender, ushering a shell-shocked Parvati into a chair. “You’ve stopped by a few times now. Would you like some wine? We’re in France, by the way, the year’s 1789.”

“I guess the time machine works, then,” said Parvati weakly, accepting the glass of wine but not drinking.

“I’m Lavender Brown by the way—well, _Dame Lorraine_ is my current alias—but anyway. We become quite good friends. And no, darling, your time machine doesn’t work because you can’t find your way back. From what we can decipher, I’m like your time travel anchor point—everywhere you appear, I’m there, somewhere, and you’ve just got to find me.”

“Right,” replied Parvati, still looking a little shell-shocked. “Right. So I just carry on time-skipping and hoping I’ll end up back where I was?”

“Precisely.”

“Where did you say we are again? What year?”

“Paris, darling. France. 1789.”

“Right. So have they overthrown the bourgeoisie yet?”

“So they _do_ manage in the end! How exciting.”

“Exciting?” Parvati gave her an incredulous look. “How is it exciting when _you’re_ the bourgeoisie?”

Lavender shrugged and offered her a brioche. “I can’t die, darling. I live for a bit of drama. Besides, I’ve never had my head guillotined before, it could be an interesting experience.”

***

Everything hurt but Lavender ignored it. Pain meant nothing to her anymore, hadn’t done in a very long time. She was pretty sure there was a long gash on her face from a screaming soldier who’d tried attacking her, confused, but it was shallow. And the cold was aching and bone-deep but her body wasn’t about to shut down so she could ignore it.

Lavender turned her attention back to the dying soldier in front of her. In all honesty, she didn’t think he had a chance but she’d be damned if she didn’t at least try to save him—she was a nurse, for Christ’s sake.

But then there was a muffled bang and a _snap_ and Lavender moved faster than she’d ever done in her life.

Abandoning the soldier (who was definitely as good as dead), she lunged for the ripple in the air and tackled her friend (occasional lover?) to the ground, feeling a violently hot pain in her side.

“Ah fuck,” said Lavender, peeling away from Parvati but keeping low. “Not again.”

“Oh shit—you just—” babbled Parvati, even while Lavender tried ushering her behind the line of trees.

“Relax,” Lavender grumbled, fishing around for the remains of the bloody .577 ball in her side. There was a lot of blood and it was sticky and messy and not at all pleasant. “I can’t die, remember? And at least it hasn’t hit anything important, nothing that won’t take another day or so to grow back.”

Parvati grimaced. “Lav, I know you can’t die, but doesn’t that hurt?”

“Oh for sure,” she replied. “But after 12 children without anaesthetic being invented yet and getting burned alive twice, a rifle wound really isn’t a big deal.”

“Huh. I guess. Thanks, by the way.”

“You know it’s not a problem, darling. I’m glad you’re alive.”

“So am I. Here, let me bandage that for you.”

“Hands off—remind me, who’s the trained nurse here?” said Lavender, with an attempt at a grin.

Parvati tried returning the smile but it was wan. “Alright, Lav. Why are you so close to the frontlines anyway?”

“I’m not supposed to be,” she muttered.

“Oh. What’s the year?”

“1855. We’re in Russia—Crimean War. Any chance you know when it ends?”

“Sorry Lav. I never learned the Crimean War in school.”

Lavender grimaced. “Shame. I’m sick of this, I tell you. But saving people—I guess I felt obliged to be here. For the soldiers, you know.”

“Yeah,” Parvati said softly, leaning against a tree. “So. You’ve been alive for just over half a century then, huh?”

“I guess I have.”

“And only 12 kids?” asked Parvati. “Considering the amount of times you’ve been married.”

Lavender’s hands stilled from where she was tying up the grimy (and slightly damp) bandage tight. “Well, I try to avoid it when I can. But then again, what else am I supposed to do, huh? What when you’re not here?”

With a thin smile, Parvati looked up to mean her eyes, looking somewhat hesitant. “Doesn’t it hurt? Outliving all of your children?”

“Yeah.” Lavender’s face crumpled. “Of course it does. Every time. But you get used to it after a while, what when everyone around me is dying.”

She gestured to the rest of the battlefield and the blood on her clothes and neither of them said anything for a while.

***

“Oh for _pity’s_ sake!” exclaimed Lavender, the clothes pin slipping from her fingers and onto the floor. “ _Another_ revolution? Warn me, will you? The French one was annoying enough—I know I said it could be exciting but let me tell you Parvati, being guillotined isn’t even remotely fun.”

Parvati laughed and picked the pin up for her, which she accepted rather ungraciously.

“No spoilers, remember?” Parvati reminded her, with a flash of those annoyingly white teeth. Guaranteed, the first thing Lavender was going to do when braces were invented was fix the gap in her front teeth.

“Oh, do shut up, darling. Russia sounded fun, so I stayed for a while, however bitingly cold it is. And now you’re telling me to expect another revolution in the next couple of years?”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Parvati leaned back on two legs of her chair, and tucked a few escaped strands of dark hair behind her ears. “Say, they don’t put arsenic in the makeup anymore, do they?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Do you have eyeliner? Is that in fashion? Although I’ve got to admit, early 20th century fashion is gorgeous. Are those real pearls?”

“Oh this?” Lavender ran her necklace in between her fingers. “I think so. Victor said they were, after all. You know, Russian was an absolute pain to learn. Gosh, the alphabet—sorry, Parvati, I’ll stop talking about my linguistic skills (or lack thereof) in a minute. Eyeliner, you say? Will this do?”

She watched Parvati accept the small bottle eagerly and curse when it was apparently a little runnier than what she was used to. But her hand was steady as she traced the outside of her eyes in a bold flick and coloured it in carefully. It made her dark eyes pop against her caramel-coloured skin, making them both sharper and smoulder more, like embers of coal, just like Lavender had thought they looked like all those years ago.

In short, she looked really fucking sexy and Lavender bit her bottom lip.

“Do mine as well, Parvati, please. It’s not in fashion yet but I do love the way it looks.”

“Of course.”

She sat still when Parvati leaned forwards to do her makeup, breath smelling a bit like sweet raisin bread as it ghosted over the tip of her nose.

“Why don’t you visit some place more exciting?” asked Parvati, startling Lavender just a little. She was busy staring at her lips.

“What? Oh, right. What do you _mean_ exciting?”

“Come off it Lav,” she grinned, dipping her brush and starting on the other eye. “I always appear where you are, right? So how comes you’ve been alive for this long and still, all I’ve seen are bits of Europe, mostly England, and America that one time in 1608?”

“Oh, shut up. I _do_ travel. I’d get really very bored otherwise, and entirely too curious. There was that one time in Japan, remember? And the pirate ship? And I spent a whole decade in Africa, it’s hardly my fault you weren’t there to see it. To be fair, I’ve never been to Australia though, and I’ve no intention—have you heard the rumours about the spiders, Parvati?”

She snorted a laugh. “Yes. But it’s really not too bad, Lavender, especially when you can’t actually die from all those jellyfish and crocodiles. And besides, if people live there—”

“Oh, sure. Still. Travelling is fun but look at me, Parvati. I’m white, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Sure, I’m immortal, but existing is a whole lot easier when you fit in—and as it so happens, I fit into in parts Europe, and America specifically.”

“Fair enough,” said Parvati, screwing the eyeliner shut again. “All done. Here, take a look.”

She didn’t move her face away as she turned Lavender’s chair to face the mirror. She’d done a good job—Lavender took a minute to admire the way it made the colour of her eyes stand out before catching Parvati’s eye in the mirror. She was smiling slightly and her small gold earrings caught the light and her fingers were loosely splayed on Lavender’s shoulders.

Lavender turned her head just slightly and closed the distance between them, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her mouth. She let it linger for a second before Parvati made a small noise of impatience and swung her leg over Lavender’s lap to kiss her properly.

***

Parvati leaned forwards in the booth to wipe a tiny smudge of lipstick on Lavender’s face with a dopey smile, eyes bright in the dim light of the bar. There was a cabaret performer on stage who looked gorgeous in sheer tights and bold lipstick and there were a few couples swaying to soft piano music by the bar, but Lavender only had eyes for the woman in front of her.

“It’s nice, being able to go out and actually experience some culture,” said Parvati, taking a sip of whatever alcoholic concoction she’d ordered from the bar.

Lavender smiled ruefully and brushed a strand of hair behind Parvati’s ear. She really did look breath-taking with bold red lipstick and smoky eyes, coupled with a dashing black dress. “I suppose it is. I still think you should have dressed up as a man more and come out with me, we could have gone to a concert.”

“I have boobs, Lav. And besides, we both know my skin’s too dark and I look too ‘exotic’ to get away with taking a white girl to a concert in the Victorian times. Hell, I’m still getting funny looks now.”

“I guess. It gets better, you say? The world?”

“Yeah,” Parvati smiled reassuringly. “I mean, look at us. We’re in a gay bar after all, full of sexual deviants just like us,” she finished with a teasing lilt on the end of her voice and Lavender smiled again.

“It’s perfect. Well, not yet, but the world’s getting there.”

Parvati made a face. “More or less. Enjoy this while it’s here Lav, and do me a favour and move back to England soon, trust me.”

“Why?”

“Germany… without spoilers, it becomes _very_ nationalistic and awful, and, well, run by arguably one of the most despicable human beings of all time. This…” she gestured to the couples gathered around them and the single women by the bar, and the laughter flowing easy. “This doesn’t last for long. Please move back to England soon, Lav.”

“Alright. I will.”

Lavender squeezed Parvati’s hands reassuringly, and, wanting to keep a smile on her face for as long as she could what when they barely had any time together, leaned in to kiss her gently. They broke apart after a while and Parvati had her wide, lazy smile back on, the one that made Lavender’s heart jump a little.

“So, Lav. Did you ever get around to watching a Shakespeare play for me?”

“Of course,” she grinned. “Romeo and Juliet, just like you asked. Frankly, I’m not surprised it’s still as popular now as it was back in the day. It’s the perfect love story—”

“It is _not,”_ retorted Parvati, looking outraged.

“What do you mean? I though you asked me to watch a Shakespeare about love.”

“Yeah, because Shakespeare’s a legend, and if I’m being honest, Romeo and Juliet is the only Shakespeare romance-tragedy I could remember.”

“Gosh, Parvati!” she laughed. “There are so many more, like Anthony and Cleopatra, or Othello! And besides, I’m not taking back what I said, Romeo and Juliet is a beautiful love story.”

“It’s weird,” she said stubbornly, folding her arms even as the traces of a smirk started to appear around her mouth. “Juliet is _fourteen_.”

“Okay fine, it’s a little odd,” Lavender conceded. “But it wasn’t exactly weird back in the day! It wasn’t uncommon for girls to be married young.”

“Even so. It’s childish. They get married after they’ve known each other for, like, four hours or something, and then they both end up committing suicide? It’s bullshit.”

“I’m telling you Parvati, it’s not!” said Lavender indignantly. “It’s not _childish,_ it’s _about_ childishness. And that’s what makes it beautiful, I’m telling you. Their actions are irrational, yes, but it’s not just the young people in the play—their parents are arguably just as bad. In scene—”

“Alright, alright, Lav,” she laughed, dim light catching her gold earrings. “I don’t know enough about the play to know what you’re talking about but I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’re agreeing it’s a good love story?”

“No, I never said that. It’s an awful love story, and if anything, it’s more about hate and _stupidity_ —”

“Parvati! No!”

***

Lavender was so, so tired. Parvati was right. There was another war, and again, it had started from the rise of yet another bigoted madman and a nation’s changing attitudes. Seeing history repeat itself again and again and again became so tiring and Lavender just wanted to sleep.

“Nurse Brown. Have you filed yesterday’s medical records?”

She wasn’t on the frontlines this time, but it was no less gruelling. “No, ma’am. The west wing got bombed—”

“I’m _aware,_ Miss Brown. Now go get them filed at once.”

Lavender breathed through her nose and gritted her teeth. She’d spent the whole night setting up wards in the _corridors,_ for Christ’s sakes, and the whole morning assisting in an operation (which should not have been allowed, what if she’d made a mistake?) and she hadn’t slept in almost 2 days. Never mind she was immortal, she was _so, so tired_ and if her fatigue led to a stupid mistake she couldn’t afford—

She accepted the cup of tea from Nurse Bulstrode and turned back to the paperwork half in a daze. It was awful. Everything was awful. With as long as she’d been alive, she should have been used to blood and gore (she’d been alive when _barber surgeons_ were a thing, for Merlin’s sake, and this wasn’t even nearly the first war she’d lived through) but there was something overwhelmingly depressing about the sheer _number_ of young men being admitted by the day, with hollow cheeks and shaking hands, and even civilian children at the receiving end of bombs and—fuck. Lavender didn’t think it was ever possible to get used to it.

“Lav? Are you okay?”

Somehow, she’d missed the familiar _snap_ that accompanied each of Parvati’s visits, but it didn’t stop her from throwing herself into her arms and burying her face into her shoulder, taking long, shaking breaths.

“Bad timing,” she mumbled into Parvati’s shoulder. “I’ve got all these records to file—”

“Hey, hey,” Parvati eased her back into her seat. “Lav. You look dead on your feet. I’m sure the records can wait 10 minutes. What’s happening? WWII?”

She rubbed her palms into her eyes. “Yes. It’s hell. Literal hell, and I was only on the frontlines for half a year. It’s a fucking mess, there’s no room, not enough supplies, not enough nurses or doctors—”

“Hey,” she said softly, resting her hands on Lavender’s knees. “Calm down, everything turns out fine—”

“Maybe,” snapped Lavender, somewhat hysterically. “Maybe. But those men out there are never getting their lives back even if everything turns out _just fine_ in the end—”

“Lav.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just. Everyone around me is always dying, and it just… makes you forget the value of life, you know?” she looked up beseechingly. “Parvati, stay with me. Please. I need someone to stay with me—”

“Lav,” her voice was quiet, gentle, so unlike Lavender’s increasingly hysterical and bitter tones. “You know I can’t. I’m a time traveller, I’m not immortal. If I stayed I’d die. You’ll live forever. Believe me, I wish I could—but I can’t. I have a timeline to get back to.”

“Christ, I know. I know that. I’m sorry. I just… I’m so tired, Parvati.”

“I know.”

She must’ve smelled awful, like blood and bleach and sweat, but Parvati didn’t seem to care as she took her into a hug.

“For what it’s worth, Parvati,” she mumbled into her shoulder. “I hope you find your way back to your own timeline. Your home.”

“So do I.”

And it was then that Lavender realised that however long she’d known her, however many centuries of lonely nights thinking about her in the dark, she’d never once asked her what was back home in the tiny snatches of time together they’d had. She’d thought about it, sure, but—

“What are you trying to get back to? What have you got waiting for you back home, Parvati?”

She smiled wistfully, and Lavender felt awfully distant. “My twin sister, Padma. And our flat mates, Luna and Hermione—they’re the ones who built the time machine, you know. Although I can’t say I miss accidentally walking in on Hermione and her boyfriend—they used to fuck in the most ridiculous places.”

They shared a chuckle, and Lavender’s heart ached a little. It had been so long that the concept of a _home_ felt almost strange to her—everything around her always disappeared in the blink of an eye. She hadn’t thought about her own _home_ in centuries—her god-fearing mother and father and her first husband and children, and distant memories of a wooden house and the smell of hay and smoke.

The only constant presence in her life was Parvati, and her routinely appearances that she seemed to spend the rest of her life waiting for.

“And my mum and dad, obviously. They’re proud of me for going to college but they’re still disappointed that both me and my sister refused to study medicine—”

“Parvati,” said Lavender suddenly. “Parvati. I can help you. Your watch is connected to the machine, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I can get you out of your time loop, or at least help. I can get you back—”

And it was the first time the possibility had occurred to them, the first time they’d let themselves consider _maybe._ Because, after all, it was only another half a century or so before Parvati was born and another couple decades after that, she’d try building a time machine—and Lavender could help get her out.

Parvati gasped and Lavender jumped up to scrabble for a scrap of paper, all tiredness forgotten. “Write down everything,” she said feverishly, thrusting the slip of paper and a pen into her friend’s (lover’s?) hands. “Everything. The date, the time you stepped into the time machine, your address, everything. Tell me how to break into your house.”

“I—yeah. Of course. Oh my god, I never thought of that. Thank you so much Lav—”

She looked a little overwhelmed and that was fine, everything was fine. Because, _yes,_ within another 100 years Lavender would exist in Parvati’s timeline, within another 100 years she’d get Parvati out of her time loop and maybe, just maybe, they’d have one human life to spend together. And then. And then, what?

And then Lavender would keep on living, fresh and young, until when? Would she forget Parvati and her periodic visits? Would she keep living after the world ended, floating around in empty space until the universe itself disintegrated?

It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about it but everything seemed so much heavier now and Lavender was _tired._

***

With a smile, Lavender waved at Mr Creevey who’d just arrived to pick his son up ( _finally,_ Colin was an annoying little shit if not adorable) and adjusted the bandanna in her hair as she walked back into her little classroom and started cleaning up. The kids had tried finger painting that day, bless them, and there were little smears of colour (okay, not little) speckled over the backs of all the furniture.

“Lav,” Seamus burst into the classroom holding two large cups of coffee. “D’ya want a biscuit with this?”

“Thanks, Shay.” She accepted the mug gratefully. “Long day?”

“Those kids,” he sighed melodramatically and flopped onto the desk, smile bright as ever. “I’m telling you Lav, they don’t know basic respect. One of them tried telling me that Ireland was a city in England and I swear I’ve never come so close to wringing a child’s neck—”

Lavender laughed and took a sip out of her cup of coffee and tucked a strand of hair behind her headband. She liked the 90s. She liked the hair, the fashion, the makeup. Actually, it wasn’t as fun as the 80s but Lavender didn’t care—culture changed so quickly these days and she found she was never bored, not after enduring centuries in the _middle ages._

There were only a few minor setbacks that were easily dodged after Lavender’s long life of experiences, and it was all worth it for central heating. Although, it was irritating arguing with Seamus, the school’s history teacher, because she couldn’t exactly tell him something was bullshit without any more proof than _I was there._ To date, he still refused to believe that Oliver Cromwell was a little piece of shit when he was nursery-school age.

But on the other hand, Seamus also never questioned it when Lavender asked him and his boyfriend, Dean, to help her forge illegal documents. He really, truly thought she was mad, but whatever. Sometimes, Lavender simply could not resist ranting about a really niche piece of history or what a pain it was to get a job without forging all sorts of qualifications which she’d had the same year the bloody things were created.

“So, Lav, how’s the spy business?” he asked as they climbed into her Austin Metro to get to the pub.

“Not great,” she replied, sighing heavily. God, was she glad about the ban on witch-hunting—Seamus had no flying fucking clue what she was on about half the time but he simply chose to ignore it. “The surveillance these days is simply astronomical. Darling, do you know what a pain it is to forge my passport every decade?”

“You carry on like that and I’ll begin to think you’re a time traveller or something,” said Seamus, unconcerned.

“Close,” she replied, taking a left without bothering look and squeezing between two lorries. “I’m immortal, actually.”

“Ha, very funny—Christ, woman, are you trying to kill us?”

“Relax, I’ve been driving for just under a century, I know what I’m doing, Shay. And my god, those things that they used to call automobiles—a horse was more efficient, hands-down.”

“Whatever you say, Lav.”

Lavender ordered a martini and some crisps, settling next to Seamus and Neville, the Year 4 teacher, to happily engage in a heated debate about the cultural significance of renaissance paintings and the pervading impact of religion on artwork through the ages, but happened to glance at the TV out of the corner of her eyes. Liverpool was up on Everton by 2 goals, but Lavender didn’t care—she’d caught sight of the date in the corner of the screen.

“Oh,” she said, setting her cocktail down.

“Well that’s not what he reaction I was expecting,” joked Neville, and Lavender quickly turned back to the conversation. Seamus was cheering and insisting they order another round of drinks and Angelina, the PE teacher, was slapping Neville soundly on the back.

“What? What did I miss?”

“Neville’s getting married!” Angelina whooped. “Hannah said yes!”

“Oh—congratulations!” squealed Lavender, but she was preoccupied for the whole of the rest of the evening.

It was Parvati’s birthday—in other words, the exact day that Parvati was born. The thought made her feel strange inside because _fuck,_ Lavender was really, truly, very old.

***

It was a bit like walking through a dream. She’d photocopied that little, yellowing piece of paper and written it out time and time again—she knew exactly what was on it, word for word, by heart. And still, Lavender was terrified that she’d somehow fucked it up and gotten Parvati’s address wrong, or the date, or even the year. But no, she had to be right—Parvati had said that the time machine was built during a long period when universities had closed and everyone had to stay at home and unless there was another pandemic in the next few years (gods, Lavender still remembered the plague—now that was awful) then she was definitely in the right year, at least.

Lavender felt like she was buzzing, with static in her head. She hadn’t seen Parvati in 22 years, not since the incident with Seamus and the mud in Glastonbury, and fuck, she was excited—but simultaneously terrified. After this, that would be it. Parvati specifically said that she’d never travel to Lavender’s future, so once Lavender helped her get back, she’d never have Parvati’s sporadic visits to look forward to every again.

“Seamus,” she hissed, into her phone. “Seamus, what does the piece of paper say?”

“Take a guess, you tosser. You’ve read it about 50 million times.”

“Seamus, you’re not being helpful. I’m _stressed,_ darling.”

“Honest to god woman, you’ll be fine. Dean, tell her she’ll be fine.”

“What if she doesn’t like me and she was only talking to me because she didn’t have a choice?”

She heard his noise of frustration and Dean’s snort in the background. The two of them still, without fail, provided her with exemplary fake ID every decade after having no choice but to believe that she was immortal—they’d seen Parvati materialising into thin air, after all.

“Lav, the woman went on god knows how many dates with you, and snogged you in god knows how many random places, and even spent a week in a little medieval shack with you. _Without toilet paper._ You’re being ridiculous, of course she likes you. Now hurry up before the neighbours start getting suspicious.”

“What’s the number again?”

“18, and you knew that. Now hurry up. Dean says good luck, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, hanging up the phone and slipping it back in her pocket. She pressed the button for the lift, casting a furtive look around for any snooping neighbours with nothing better to do than report people for not respecting social distancing—and Lavender really did feel like a spy when she lifted the key from under the plant pot outside the flat, without stopping to wonder who on earth would buy such a strange cactus.

She was in the flat in seconds, and following the corridor to the lounge—it was surreal seeing it the way Parvati had explained all those years ago.

“Parvati?”

There was a woman blocking the way into the room, and from the back, she looked almost identical to the woman that Lavender had grown to love. But Lavender had spent enough time picturing her face to know exactly what Parvati looked like, down to every detail, and to recognise that this wasn’t her.

“Padma?”

The woman recovered from her shock and narrowed her eyes. “Who the _fuck_ are you and how did you get into my house? Did Luna let you in?”

“Errr… no,” said Lavender. “I’m, uh, here to help. With your problem.”

“My what?” said Padma, suddenly looking very shifty.

“Is Parvati home? Or have you guys managed to make her disappear yet?”

Padma gaped. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m—”

“Can someone tell me what the _fuck_ that vet that tried to flirt with Ron is in my apartment?” snapped a bushy-haired girl, appearing from a room with a harried look and a precariously balanced stack of ancient-looking books with a laptop balanced on top.

“I don’t know—”

“Hi, I’m Lavender,” Lavender tried, meekly. “I’m Parvati’s friend.”

“Well that’s just too bad,” she snapped, muscling her way past Lavender and into the living room. “Because she’s not here right now, unless you happen to have a dead body or an immortal handy. Padma, is Luna still trying to communicate with the wrackspurts?”

“Ah,” said Lavender. “What a coincidence. See the funny thing is—”

“Yes,” interrupted Padma, shrugging. “She says that the wrackspurts were inconclusive as to whether Partavi was still in this dimension—”

“Excuse me,” Lavender tried again. “I’m immortal.”

The bushy-haired girl dropped the stack of complicated-looking equations she was holding. It looked like bullshit to Lavender; as long as she’d lived, she’d never managed to get the hang of physics, despite the bachelor’s degree she got 8 years ago just for the giggles.

“You what?”

“I’m immortal,” Lavender repeated. “And Parvati used to visit me on her time travels. Now how does this machine work? How do we get her back?”

Both Padma, and the bushy-haired girl that Lavender assumed was Hermione, Parvati’s 3rd flat mate, both seemed too baffled to protest. Lavender turned to examine the contraption that seemed to be interestingly constructed out of an old tumble dryer, fairy lights and a pentagram.

“So, what do I have to do? How does I work?” asked Lavender.

“See, the funny thing is—” Hermione began. “We weren’t actually expecting it to work. It’s a combination of hyperspace philosophy and ancient sorcery—”

“Er,” said Lavender.

“—and all it means is that you need to stand in that circle over there. This will strip your immortality—”

“Right.”

Lavender was numb to a lot of things at this point: she’d seen more than any normal human should have, survived a lot of things that she shouldn’t have. But the little act of stepping into Luna’s chalk circle had her shaking in her cardigan—was it the end of an era? Would she really only die one more time? Would she really live out the rest of her life (and yes, after this her life would have an end) as a vet, and maybe with Parvati?

Hermione put on her goggles and pressed a button on the tumble dryer and suddenly, Lavender couldn’t see.

But when she came to, everything felt different. Heavier, somehow, and lighter—her body ached. Sounds were sharper and the feeling of the hard wood floor dug into her shoulder blades almost painfully.

Lavender opened her eyes, slowly, and there was the face from her dreams with a familiar grin and ember-eyes and her face bright with strings of ridiculously-coloured fairy lights.

She laughed, and someone in the background swore in relief and Parvati leaned down to kiss her and Lavender felt as giddy as one of those characters from a Shakespeare play. 


End file.
